


Moses didn't need a match

by BakedAppleSauce



Series: The desert is a waste of time [3]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Also feelings, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BACK AT IT AGAIN, M/M, Post-Season/Series 02, this time with added plot, which everyone involved is in severe denial about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-03-07 15:40:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18876160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakedAppleSauce/pseuds/BakedAppleSauce
Summary: “It’s a solid plan,” he says, which is true, and then adds, “There’s minimal risk for all us,” which is admittedly less true. The third party-involvement alone means at least fifteen additional ways in which everything could go spectacularly wrong, just off the top of his head; and that is excluding the very real possibility that Alfie Solomons might try to screw them over yet again.Tommy has a plan, everybody else has doubts.





	1. Chapter 1

“Has the day finally come,” Polly says, after she has stared at him silently for what feels like a solid minute. “Have you finally lost your bloody mind?”

There must have been a time in their lives, Tommy thinks, when she hasn’t felt the need to accuse him of losing his mind on a monthly basis, but he’ll be damned if he can remember it. Before the war, probably, which even on the best of days feels so long ago now, it might as well have happened in another lifetime.

“It’s a solid plan,” he says, which is true, and then adds, “There’s minimal risk for all us,” which is admittedly less true. The third party-involvement alone means at least fifteen additional ways in which everything could go spectacularly wrong, just off the top of his head; and that is excluding the very real possibility that Alfie Solomons might try to screw them over yet again. 

“What are you telling me for, then?”

“I’m going to tell everybody,” Tommy says, but of course, Polly is already narrowing her eyes at him. She suspects that he wants her help convincing everyone else at the family meeting, Tommy can tell. Which hopefully won’t be necessary, because yes, Esme might object on principle, just because it’s London, and Arthur is going to object to the fact that the Jews are involved, but neither one will be a serious problem.

Convincing Arthur is easy, after all, it always has been – or maybe it just feels that way because Tommy is used to arguing with Polly and Ada, which more often than not entails a degree of stubbornness that is in a league of its very own. Also, Esme seems to have made her peace with London by now, if the past few months are anything to go by, which means that John shouldn’t be too hard to win over, either.

He already went with them to the warehouse, after all, so he’s going to realize that theoretically, he knows much more about this plan than anybody else, which might appeal to his pride. Can’t hurt, in any case. As far as Michael is concerned… well, he’s going to be on Tommy’s side, because he always is on Tommy’s side. Privately, Tommy is counting the days until _that_ particular shine wears off, but it hasn’t yet and it’s very unlikely that today is going to be the day.

“What do you need, then?” Polly says, without taking a guess first, which is a bit surprising.

“Nothing.”

Polly looks towards the ceiling, like there might be someone up there who is capable of sharing her burden. Waste of time, Tommy thinks, because as far as he knows, all that’s up there is the first floor of the fucking building.

 _“Nothing,”_ she tells the ceiling conversationally, like she’s talking to an old friend. “Nothing, he says. Right. So why are you telling me ahead of everyone else?”

Tommy resists the urge to rub his forehead. It’s like trying to get a starving dog to let go of a bone, sometimes. “What,” he says, impassive, “Do you not want me to tell you things, all of sudden?”

 “Get to the bloody point, Thomas, I swear to God-”

“Nothing,” Tommy says. “I need nothing from you.”

“But,” Polly prompts, with absolute certainty.

“But. The thing is. I might need Ada to do something.”

 There is a moment of silence.

“Ah,” Polly says then, sounding very  non-committal. She has an opinion on that, of course, because she has an opinion on bloody everything, but sometimes it’s less obvious whether it’s a positive or a negative one.

“Might sound better coming from you,” Tommy continues, trying to gauge her reaction, and puts his cigarette out in the ashtray that’s between them on the table.

“I’m sure it will.”

 _Will,_ not _would,_ Tommy thinks, pleased. He didn’t expect her to be enthusiastic about a plan to burn down their own warehouse for the insurance money, but that doesn’t mean he wants her in total opposition. Not on this or anything really, if he’s completely honest, but sometimes other things have to take priority.

“I’m promising nothing, by the way,” Polly says. She reaches over to take his matches, to light her own cigarette. “She might tell me to go fuck myself.”

“I’m aware of that,” Tommy says, then adds with a trace of humor. “And we both know she wouldn’t dare.”

Polly snorts. “She better not.”

She wants Ada back with them, Tommy knows, because she worries about her and Karl, far away and all alone, even though she never says anything about it. Tommy’s heard her praying for them.

“Tommy…” she says now, looking at him seriously, a clear warning in her voice.

“Nothing dangerous,” Tommy says, because it’s true. Less dangerous than whatever Ada gets up to left to her own devices, in any case. It takes effort to sound sincere when he says it, even though he bloody _is_ – he just isn’t too sure what honesty is supposed to sound like, anymore. It used to come naturally, he thinks, but somehow, at some point, it went away. So now he has to try his best and sell it, every time he really means something.

“All right,” Polly says, after a moment, when she’s finally made up her mind about whether she believes him or not. “Fine. Out with it, then.”

And Tommy tries very hard not to feel relieved, but he can’t help it – he just is.  

 

* * *

 

All things considered, the family meeting goes well.

“Now, Polly here,” Tommy says preemptively, once he’s finished outlining everything – or well, not _everything,_ but everything that is relevant at this point in time. “…thinks this is an unnecessary risk. Which is duly noted, I just happen to disagree. So. Anybody else have any objections?”

It was necessary to tell them, he reminds himself, if only to explain why they’re not going to retaliate in any way, when one of their properties was burned down.

John isn’t completely convinced yet, Tommy can tell, but he doesn’t say anything – he’s put his thinking face on instead, which is a bit worrying, because it has led to some spectacularly stupid decision in the past. John has a lot of good qualities, but being strategic isn’t one of them.

Predictably, Arthur raises his hand.

“Yeah,” he says, frowning. “This Solomons’ idea?”

Tommy has mentioned Alfie’s involvement because he had to, and it’s not like it’s a secret, anyway. He’s already come to terms with the fact that he’s going to have to keep a close eye on Arthur during all of this, because Arthur is still livid about what happened with Billy Kitchen and rightfully so – but that doesn’t mean that it’s going to be productive or in _anybody’s_ interest if Arthur tries to bash Alfie’s head in with his bare fists in a fit of rage.

“No,” he lies without thinking. “It was mine, actually.”

Arthur is not deterred. “But he’s going to be involved,” he says, which is not a question.

“Yes.”

“That why we went to London the other week?” John cuts in.

“Part of it, yes.”

The other part… he’s not thinking about the other part. The other part was a tragic lapse in judgement – an anomaly, a strange kind of itch that needed scratching. Who knows, maybe it was temporary insanity. It won’t happen again, he thinks, trying to ignore the fact that he’s already come to that exact same conclusion once before; and how they went to London, then, and it _did_ happen again.

“Can’t trust ‘em, Tom,” Arthur says, low and furious, with an intensity like he is revealing one of the secret truths of the bloody universe.

Tommy glances over at Polly, annoyed. She raises her eyebrows at him, perfectly aware of the fact that he knows _that_ much, at least. He also knows Arthur means well – he always does – but hell, it’s not like Tommy is a complete fucking idiot. He doesn’t need Arthur to tell him not to trust anybody, because that’s his natural state anyway – he’s so paranoid these days, he doesn’t even trust _himself._

“All right,” he says, trying not to sound exasperated. “I’ll keep it in mind, Arthur. Anybody else?”

Everybody just keeps looking at him expectantly. Then Finn clears his throat, over in the corner, and for one bizarre moment Tommy thinks that _he’s_ going to have an opinion on this as well, but obviously he doesn’t say anything.

“Right,” Tommy says after a moment. “If nobody else wants to speak, I’m taking that to mean we’re all in agreement.”

“Fuck me,” Arthur murmurs under his breath, arms crossed.

“Arthur?” Tommy says, as patiently as possible.

“Nothing,” Arthur says, morosely. “Fine. Yes. Agreement.”

If only he knew, Tommy thinks, suddenly queasy and vehemently trying _not_ to think about the fact that he knows what Alfie’s bedroom looks like. And not only that, a small, traitorous part of his brain adds unhelpfully, he knows what the bedroom _ceiling_ looks like, in intimate fucking detail, too… right, he’s not thinking about _that,_ either.

It’s not like there aren’t a million _other_ things to worry about, after all.

 

* * *

 

That night he comes awake gradually, almost like in a daze, which is unusual – without the opium, his body seems to reject sleep almost violently and at every opportunity it gets.

For some reason, he’s perfectly aware that he’s been dreaming, even though he can’t remember the actual dream at all. The tiniest bit of light is filtering in from the outside; otherwise he’s surrounded by the still, heavy darkness that is the actual middle of the night.

He’s on his stomach, feeling overly warm and slick with sweat, face and neck almost sticking to the pillowcase; dampness collecting in his hairline, at the small of his back. He’s also fucking hard, he realizes with a start. His cock feels hot and swollen, where it’s wedged between his hip and the mattress. He makes an involuntary noise at the sudden realization and automatically stifles it against the pillow. Everything feels slow and hazy, like he still hasn’t managed to completely wake up yet.

 _Christ,_ he’s hard.

It’s impossible not to move – his body is already pushing against the mattress all by itself, trying to create some friction. A full-blown shudder runs through him at the feeling, and then he’s frantically shoving his hand underneath, tries to wrap his fingers around his cock in the limited space that is left. Doesn’t even matter, he thinks, biting back a moan, it still feels… _oh._ Fuck.

A hot flash of embarrassment goes through him, suddenly, thinking about what he must look like right now, desperately rocking against his own hand. Probably couldn’t even see that, he thinks, if you were standing next to the bed or sitting in the corner. All anyone would be able to see are his movements, his hips shoving against the bed, arm buried beneath his body. Probably would hear him, too, harsh breathing, the frantic little noises he can’t help but make.

They’d tell him to bloody slow down, he thinks, maybe even yank his hand away and hold him down, leave him with nothing but the mattress to help get himself off.

And he wouldn’t be able to stop moving even then, because he actually _can’t,_ he’s too far gone for that already. He’d be rocking downwards while they’d twist his arm behind his back, so he couldn’t get away at all, telling him how desperate he was for it, hm? and how he’s going to come, just like this, because apparently he doesn’t need more than that, and how that’s good to know, how they’ll remember that in the future, because they’re gonna make him do it again and again-

It’s Alfie’s voice, he realizes in a moment of horrifying clarity, Jesus, he’s fantasizing about _Alfie –_ how he would hold Tommy down and force him to get off like this, helpless and out of control. _Fuck,_ he needs to fucking come. Except in his head, Alfie still has a vice grip on both of his arms, telling him in that amused voice of his about how he can do it, can’t he? it’s not that fucking complicated, yeah, he just has to _really_ try-

Tommy grits his teeth, hissing out air on every exhale. He can’t really move his hand like this, which just fuels the fantasy; he’s cupping his cock against his stomach, tries to rub up and down with his palm, arm shaking with the strain.

What’s the matter, then – and Tommy can practically _hear_ Alfie say it, in that mockingly innocent tone – thought you wanted to, hm? ‘cause we can keep this going, mate, no problem at all, long as you fucking need to, yeah, I’ve got nowhere else to be, so you just take your time-

Oh, Jesus _fucking Christ._

He is coming in long, satisfying pulses, trying to muffle the sounds he’s making in his pillow.

After, he rolls over onto his back and pants up at the ceiling for a few disoriented minutes, feeling absolutely mortified, even though nobody will ever have to know about this. For some reason, it freaks him out more than the fact that he’s actually slept with Alfie in real life. Because it’s one thing to get off on actually _having_ sex with somebody – physical sensation and all that – but it’s another one entirely to wake up in the middle of the night to bloody _fantasize_ about the bastard.

It’s supposed to be out of his system by now, he thinks angrily, like some annoying fever that has to break at some point, if you just wait patiently enough. It almost feels like a betrayal. They’ve already fucked on three separate occasion, for fuck’s sake. What else is he supposed to do?  

He doesn’t fall asleep again that night, doesn’t even bother to try.

 

* * *

 

The next day, he’s in a terrible mood, short-tempered and annoyed by the tiniest of details.

“Christ,” Polly says eventually, after word of his current mood has spread through the whole floor and people are doing their best to avoid him like the plague. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but do us all a favor and go do something else. No need for everyone here to be as bloody miserable as you are.”

Instead of acknowledging any of that, he says, “You speak to Ada yet?” which earns him a sigh.

“Tried calling before, but apparently, she’s out.”

Which might or might not have been true, since Ada likes to use that as an excuse to easily ignore them whenever she doesn’t feel like being a Shelby – but it’s Polly who called, so she’ll be in touch.

“Right,” Tommy says and rubs a hand over one eye, suddenly tired. “All right. Fine. I’m gone for the day.”

“Thank God for small mercies,” Polly murmurs.

He spends the rest of the day drinking at the pub, which becomes considerably less miserable once Arthur shows up to join him. They don’t talk about London, thankfully – Arthur has brought the paper, and they spend the rest of the afternoon talking about the races and some of the horses in particular. It’s a safe topic for them, tried and true, and also one of the few things Tommy finds genuinely entertaining, without the automatic impulse to weigh the pros and cons from every possible angle.

In the back of his mind, he suspects that Arthur lets him go on about it because he either noticed the mood Tommy was in earlier at the office, or Polly has sent him with instructions. He decides not to care about it for once. Arthur used to be the same with boxing, he thinks suddenly, halfway through a not entirely sober rant about thrush and the merits of zinc sulfate over ether – he used to be able to go on about techniques and individual fighters for hours, before the war. These days, not so much anymore.

“Well, s’all avoidable,” Arthur says, after a few moments of confused silence. Tommy has just been staring at him, he realizes. Fuck. He must be more drunk than he thought. “Just have to clean their hooves properly. Right?”

He doesn’t sound sober, either. Just between the two of them, they’ve gone through two thirds of a bottle of Whisky already. Which isn’t that much, all things considered, except usually John is there as well.

“Yeah,” Tommy says, reaching for his matches. “Well. No, actually, there’s the condition of the stables, too-”

He can see Arthur’s eyes glaze over. It takes two matches to actually light his cigarette, because he manages to break the first one in half, clumsy with alcohol.

“Hah,” Arthur says, amused.

“Fuck off,” Tommy murmurs good-naturedly, inhaling deeply from his cigarette. They sit in silence after that. Arthur refills their glasses at some point and Tommy stares at the mostly empty bottle in front of him for a while, drunk and tired, feeling a lot better than he did before, for some reason.  

Maybe it’s going to be all right after all.

 

* * *

 

It's not all right.

He should have seen it coming, really. When they get back to the betting shop, the day is done, everybody that’s not working there gone already. Arthur, who has been complaining that he’s bloody starving for five minutes now, mutters something about bread and disappears in the direction of the kitchen.

Tommy hasn’t made up his mind yet if he wants to eat something or not, when Scudboat appears right next to him and clears his throat, looking uncomfortable.

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

“Yes,” Tommy says, wishing instantly that he was more sober than he actually is. “What is it?”

“Might be nothing,” Scudboat says, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Or could be something, I’m not sure. Some of our people told me, right, that for the last few days… well. Some of Sabini’s bookies have been back at Epsom.”

Tommy blinks at him. “The last few days?”

“Yeah,” Scudboat says. “Reason it didn’t come up sooner was that apparently, they’re getting along. The Italians and the Jews, I mean. Otherwise, somebody would’ve said something sooner.”

“Right,” Tommy says, trying to make sense of that information in his head. “All right. How many?”

“Just a few, as I said,” Scudboat says, eyeing him warily. “Still mostly Solomons’ people. Word was, they wasn’t surprised when the Italians showed up. Seemed to be getting along just fine.”

All right, Tommy thinks in his head. Fucking _all right._

“I’ll look into it,” is what he says out loud. “Probably nothing. But keep an eye on it just in case, eh?”

“Can do that, no problem.”

He ignores Arthur, who’s just returned with his ham sandwich, and goes straight to the telephone to make some calls. Turns out, in the last few days, Camden Town has been expanded by a street or two – the border is shifting, or _has_ been shifted or whatever the bloody details may be. Nobody thought it necessary to inform him right away, apparently, because everything happened very peacefully, without any fighting or bloodshed, or any disagreement at all.

Which means Sabini was fucking in on it, clearly, or the whole thing would’ve been very noticeable, even all the way up in Birmingham. Tommy hangs up the telephone very carefully. What the fuck. He needs to talk to Moss first thing tomorrow, he needs as many details as possible.

That’s what you get, he thinks resentfully, while he awkwardly fishes his packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, trying to clear his head. Fucking morons. They all take his money and insist on being fucking useless in return. And he’s not even excluding himself from that thought, because honestly…

He should have seen it fucking coming.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole gang is in this, yay!  
> No Alfie, but he'll be back, I promise.
> 
> (Even writing this, I kept going, DUDE. _Stop_ overthinking everything.)
> 
>  
> 
> I'm [bakedapplesauce](https://bakedapplesauce.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, nobody seems to know any details, apart from the very obvious ones.

There has been an uneasy truce between all parties, ever since they forced Sabini out, but it’s not like Tommy expected it to last forever – after something like that, you retreat, you lick your wounds for a while and then, if you’ve still got some ambitions left, you pick an angle and try again. It’s how it always goes – it’s what he would have done as well. Hell, it’s what he _did_ do, when he was in that exact same position.  

It’s just that he was expecting the eventual move to be more noticeable, if only because Sabini wouldn’t know subtlety if it hit him in the face, and maybe that’s his own damn fault for not paying enough attention. What he knows without a doubt is this: Alfie must’ve let Sabini back into Epsom voluntarily, because there would have been hell to pay otherwise, and he wouldn’t have been quiet about it either. So now he’s managed to expand his territory, which is the obvious result, but the real problem is what else he might’ve gotten out of it; what other things they might have agreed on.

Honestly, Tommy thinks, after he’s spent a rather unsuccessful day trying to gather information, he would be satisfied if he could narrow it down to a bloody time and place at this point – because they must have met, to negotiate all of this in person, whatever _this_ is supposed to be. Of course, there’s always the possibility they made the deal with the help of an intermediary; but no, he thinks, they wouldn’t. Neither of them trusts anybody else enough to concede that kind of responsibility if they can help it; which is something Tommy can relate to on a fundamental level, but that doesn’t mean the whole situation doesn’t set his teeth on edge.

So he sends John and Michael to Epsom, accompanied by two of their men just in case, with simple enough instructions: Spend at least a few hours there and visibly have a good time. Place all their bets with one of the Italian bookies. Above all, be civil, they’re all friends there.

Well. That last one goes for John, mostly.

“What,” John says, equal parts confusion and outrage. “It this supposed to be a joke? What fucking Italian bookies?”

“It’s not a joke,” Tommy says.

“But… what? What the fuck! Tommy, what bloody Italians?”

“Civil,” Tommy repeats, instead of answering that, because he’s slept a total of three hours last night and really doesn’t feel like going into detail right now. “Fucking _civil,_ do you hear me? Eh?”

“I did, I heard you, but-”

“Michael, did you hear that?” Tommy says, without looking away from John’s face.

“I did,” Michael says, unimpressed. Tommy’s not sure if he’s quite up to the task of keeping John in line, if things really go south, but he has no doubt that he will try. John, even on his worst day, is a lot easier to calm down than Arthur at least.

“Right,” Tommy says, mostly to himself. “All right. Don’t start any fights if you can help it. And most importantly, pretend that everything is normal.”

“But it’s not though, is it,” John tries again. “If the fuckin’ Italians are there? Why in the name of fuck-”

“Enough,” Tommy says. He can feel a headache forming. “You’re sending a message, all right? Nothing more, nothing less. Can you do that or not?”

“’Course I bloody can,” John says immediately, effectively forgetting to ask about what kind of message he is supposed to be sending.

“Good,” Tommy says. He can tell that Michael is already thinking about it, trying to put the pieces together in his head; he probably won’t get anywhere, because he’s missing too much of the important details to get the full picture.

This might work or it might not, Tommy thinks later, as he watches them leave. He’ll have to wait and see what kind of response he’s going to get.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Lizzy appears in the doorway to his office.

“London’s on the phone.”

“Are they,” Tommy says, as disinterested as possible – which is unnecessary, honestly, because it’s not like anyone but Lizzie can see his reaction. Ollie is not going to know whether he looked like he cared or not through the bloody _phone,_ after all.

“It’s about the warehouse. Details, they said.”

“Tell them,” Tommy says and then, for some godforsaken reason he doesn’t really understand himself, pretends to _think_ about it, even though he’s had everything mapped out in his head since yesterday. “Tell them, if they want to meet, we’re not doing it at the bakery.”

“All right,” Lizzie says, a bit confused, looking like she wants to ask why, because this is a deviation from the norm, but in the end, she doesn’t. She’s gone for a while before she comes back, looking even more confused. 

“They’re insisting on the bakery,” she says.

Tommy resists the urge to tell her that he’s insisting that they go fuck themselves.

“Well, that’s not going to work for us, eh?”

“Right…” Lizzie says slowly. “You want me to go tell them… that?”

“Yes.”

She returns to her desk. Not even a minute later, she’s back again – not quite annoyed with the whole back and forth yet, but definitely getting there.

“I’m supposed to get you on the phone.”

Tommy leans back in his chair and resist the urge to demonstratively spread his arms, because again, it’s not like anyone can actually see him react. “I’m busy.”

“All right,” Lizzie says. “In that case, I’m supposed to tell you,” and she takes a deep breath, obviously quoting now, “…that indulging in that fire hazard of a vice while staring blankly into space, contemplating the various injustices of this world does not constitute being busy.”

Tommy blinks at her, resisting the irrational urge to put his cigarette away. He didn’t expect to get Alfie on the phone today. The call from London, yes, if everything went according to plan, but he honestly thought that Alfie was going to let Ollie handle things.

“I’ll call them back in five minutes.”

Lizzie goes to relay that information.

Tommy sits there, looking at his watch, and painstakingly lets ten minutes go by before he dials the number. It rings a total of four times before somebody answers the call.

“Yeah, what.”

Tommy’s neck has started to itch. He doesn’t fucking _want_ to talk to Alfie, he realizes suddenly, and clears his throat.

“Good morning.”

“It was, mate, it was – eleven bloody minutes ago.”

On the surface, he sounds perfectly normal, but there seems to be real irritation underneath; or maybe Tommy is just imagining things. Well. Even if Alfie hasn’t realized by now that Tommy knows about the bookies and the new border, the fact that he’s flat out refusing to meet him at the bakery probably made him realize that something was amiss.

“Ten,” Tommy says, just to be an asshole. _Fuck,_ he thinks, suddenly on edge, and scans the desk, where did he put his cigarettes?

There is a moment of silence on the other line.

“Right, yeah,” Alfie says then, and yes, Tommy thinks – not entirely sure how he can tell after two words, but absolutely sure nonetheless – this is genuine irritation right there. “Let’s discuss the minuscule details in which you’ve _already_ wasted my fuckin’ time and patience this fine morning, shall we? S’exactly how I always wanted to spend my finite time on this earth, right, so why not-”

“Fine,” Tommy interrupts, which is something he usually never does. “Let’s get to the point, then. We’re not coming to the bakery.”

“Yeah, mate, already heard all about that. Where’d you wanna meet instead, then? Hm? Buckingham Palace? Paris? Personally, I’m hearing good things about Geneva, yeah-”

“The warehouse,” Tommy says abruptly, forcing himself not to react to anything Alfie has just said, because it makes him irrationally angry for some reason. “How about that?”

There is another pause.

“Fine, yeah,” Alfie says then, short and irritable. “Let’s do that. Why the fuck not.”

“Fine,” Tommy says, as indifferent as humanly possible.

“Fine,” Alfie says and hangs up.

They didn’t specify a day or a time, Tommy realizes. Lizzie will have to call them back for that. _Again._ He stares down at his desk some more, trying to process the conversation. All right, he thinks, and it sounds sarcastic even in his own head.

That went well.

 

* * *

 

They both show up to the meeting with a lot more people than necessary, which should be worrying, because it means they’re both considering the possibility that things might escalate, but makes him feel weirdly calm instead. Didn’t misinterpret anything, he thinks; at least they’re on the same page about this, even if it isn’t a particularly pleasant one.

He almost didn’t bring Arthur, but now he’s viciously glad he did. Arthur makes a low, furious sound when he sees Alfie get out of his car, like he wants to attack him right then and there. Tommy puts a hand on his arm in warning. They’re pretty evenly matched, he thinks, counting people in his head, which is a good thing, honestly, because it means no side has to get overly nervous about being outmatched. Ollie is there, naturally, and he also recognizes one of the other men as the guy who was injured a while back, even though he can’t remember his name; it looks like he recovered just fine, hands casually shoved into his pockets, looking a lot taller now that he isn’t hunched over in pain.  

Alfie doesn’t seem interested in appearing polite, which isn’t unusual – he despises having to do anything that wasn’t his idea in the first place, Tommy is well aware of that. They stare at each other, the moment to shake hands come and gone without anybody moving a muscle. Alfie’s jaw is working, like he’s grinding his teeth, or maybe like he's going to say something, but ultimately he doesn’t.

“All right,” Tommy says, once the silence has dragged on long enough. “There are a few things we need to discuss.”

“Yeah, mate, sure,” Alfie says, nodding along like this is a conversation he’s mildly interested in at best. It would be convincing, too, if the tense, controlled way he’s holding himself wasn’t telling a whole other story. “A few things, mh-hm. Yeah.”

“Fine,” Tommy says. “Let’s do that, then.”

“Yeah, fine.”

 

* * *

 

 

The foreman’s office is small and dark, feeling cramped even though it barely has any furniture in it – one desk, one chair, one rickety-looking shelf that’s mostly empty. There are some papers on the desk, Tommy registers, shipping lists by the look of it. Alfie doesn’t quite slam the door behind them, but it’s a near thing. There’s intent radiating off of him like heat, clear threat of violence with an underlying current of… something else. Tommy can feel the adrenaline rushing through him, fight-or-flight instinct kicking in.

“So,” Alfie says, dangerously calm. “Reaching out to Sabini now, are we.”

“I hear congratulations are in order, eh?” Tommy fires back. “You’re expanding.”

 _“What_ am I doing?”

“New border and everything.”

Alfie blinks at that, once, reaction there and immediately gone again, but it’s impossible to miss – or maybe it just seems that way because Tommy is actively looking for it.

“What border,” Alfie says.

He’s lying.

Tommy can feel the blood rushing in his ears, confirmation slamming into him like a coal train and dragging white, hot fury along with it. He’s dimly aware that he needs to get himself back under control, needs to get some handle on the situation and fast, or this could all very easily end in literal disaster. They both have their people waiting outside and things are already tense, everybody suspicious of each other. Still, he can’t seem to help the anger, carefully contained until now, running through him from head to toe, making his teeth clench and his shoulders tense up.

“If you wanted to get rid of Epsom that badly, we’d have taken it off your hands, no fucking problem.”

“What fucking border, mate,” Alfie says again, playing dumb, even though he knows exactly what this is  about; Tommy can see it in his eyes, it’s _obvious_. Not only that, but he has the nerve to sound outraged, like this a baseless accusation he has to defend himself against, and Tommy is going to _punch_ him in his self-righteous fucking face-

Except Alfie is moving, suddenly, crowding him back into the already small room with the force of a charging bull – he lacks the speed, heavily favoring one leg, but otherwise he’s solid as a fucking brick wall, like he’s drawing his strength from determination alone. Tommy’s first instinct, inexplicably, isn’t to go for his revolver; instead he fists the lapels of Alfie’s coat, tries to square his shoulders, to push back against him.

There is a loud clatter, Alfie’s cane dropping to the ground, and then sharp pressure, digging into the small of Tommy’s back. He realizes that it’s the edge of the desk right as Alfie shoves him on top of it – just grabs the fabric of his trousers, hooks a hand under one of his knees and fucking _lifts_ , pushes him backwards with a grunt and Tommy is going to _fucking kill him-_

He shudders almost violently, so angry he can’t even _see_ straight, and tries to kick Alfie’s bad leg. There isn’t a lot of force behind it, but it still connects, landing somewhere just above Alfie’s knee. He makes a pained sound and buckles, has to keep himself upright with both palms pressed flat on the surface of the desk.

“Fuckin’ _hell!”_

 _“Fuck_ you,” Tommy growls, unsympathetic, struggling against him. “How fucking stupid do you think I am-”

They’re up in each other’s faces now, so close their noses are almost touching.

“Oh, believe you me, mate,” Alfie hisses back, eyes bright and manic. “My life would be a lot fuckin’ easier if I thought that, yeah – would be the fucking _decent_ thing to be, honestly, instead of those self-important illusion of bloody grandeur you seem to be having on a daily fuckin’ basis-”

Tommy kisses him then, absolutely livid; shaking with anger and what he suddenly realizes is arousal – because he is _hard,_ cock straining heavily against the seam of his trousers, and when the fuck did _that_ even happen. It really does feel like a fight this time around, because Alfie meets him halfway; sinks his teeth into Tommy’s lower lip and sucks until Tommy is hissing with pain, all the while holding him in place by the back of his neck with an iron grip, in a way he never has before, the few other times they’ve done this. Still, kissing him feels shockingly, achingly familiar already, like they’ve been doing this for _years_ instead of weeks.

 _Fine,_ Tommy thinks spitefully, if that’s how it’s going to be, then _fucking. Fine._ He grabs a fistful of Alfie’s hair and wrenches his head away, pulls him off with enough force to make Alfie lose his balance again; he stumbles to the side, almost taking them both down to the floor, before he manages to grab hold of the desk corner, and hauls himself back into an upright position with an irritated noise.

Tommy realizes a second too late that he’s wrapped his legs around Alfie’s waist on pure instinct, to avoid the impending fall, which… no. Just, _no,_ fuck no, this is _not_ happening – except he can feel Alfie’s free hand at the small of his back, clutching the shirt underneath his suit jacket. He yanks Tommy forward the rest of the way and now they’re pressed so close together that there’s no space left between them, so close he can _feel_ Alfie breathing.

They’re both panting with the strain.

Alfie is practically vibrating with tension, doesn’t give him an inch to move in any direction. There’s something feral about the look in his eye, about the way he’s fixated on Tommy without blinking, something unrestrained and possessive that makes Tommy want to… God, he doesn’t even _know._ He can feel it deep down in the pit of his stomach, searing hot and clawing desperately; making his throat go tight and his cock twitch.

“Fuck you,” he manages again, nonsensically, sentiment undercut by the fact that they’re rocking against each other now, barely even moving, because they’re so close there’s not enough room to do anything, really. “Go _fuck_ yourself, you two-faced-”

“Do us a bloody favor, mate,” Alfie says, sounding strained and just as breathless as Tommy feels. “And _shut_ the fuck _up,_ hm? ‘Cause this is all _very_ charming, yeah, I’ve got no fuckin’ doubt everybody else you’ve ever fucked left you with the impression that this is a fine character trait, but truth be told-”

Tommy kisses him again, pushes his tongue into Alfie’s mouth, even though it already feels like there isn’t enough air to go around. They kiss deeply, almost violently, all teeth and desperate urgency. Alfie wrestles Tommy’s suit jacket off his shoulders, Tommy already helping him along before his brain catches up with what is happening and by then it’s too late and his gun holster is gone as well. He’s left with just his shirt, Alfie already tugging the suspenders off his shoulders. Tommy tries to slap his hand away halfheartedly – because they’re still kissing and he can’t seem to fucking _stop._

Except Alfie _does_ stop, suddenly, and for a few disoriented seconds Tommy doesn’t understand why, until he realizes that Alfie is looking down between them, brow furrowed in concentration, because he’s busy opening Tommy’s fly. He’s fumbling with the buttons before he finally pushes his hand inside, groping the length of Tommy’s cock roughly. Tommy makes a frantic noise, can’t do anything to stop himself.

_Fuck._

It almost feels like his cock leaps into Alfie’s hand, once he wraps his fingers around it properly. Tommy takes shuddering breaths, watches helplessly as Alfie pulls his cock out into the open air, gripping it tightly. He starts stroking him with a steady rhythm, and _oh,_ Tommy thinks incoherently, heartbeat thundering in his ears, oh _God,_ Jesus, _fuck._

He’s still livid, so angry he could spit, but at the same time he’s so turned on he’s shaking with it. This can’t be happening, he thinks, they’re supposed to be having a fight. This is fucking _insane._

He realizes with sudden, crystal clarity that he’s going to come all over himself if they keep this up; still partially dressed, and Jesus Christ, he can’t fucking _do_ that, there are people still waiting outside. Everyone is going to _know._ He grabs Alfie’s wrist, fingers tangling with the bracelets he’s wearing, feeling the coiled muscle in his underarm. It makes Alfie slow down, but he doesn’t stop.

“Yeah, what,” he says hoarsely, sounding almost annoyed. “What, what is it now?”

“I-” Tommy manages, trying to keep his eyes open. He’s _so_ close, _fuck._ “I, I can’t- I’m still… _fuck,_ I can’t… can’t go back outside, if…”

Alfie keeps stroking him – still slower than before, but now his initial caution at the interruption is gone again. He’s added a flick of his wrist to every upstroke; gentle, but very deliberate. Tommy has to bite the inside of his cheek to smother the moan he wants to make, tries to breathe slowly through his nose. Alfie leans forward, pressing even closer. God, Tommy can fucking smell him, terrifyingly male and sweet with rum at the same time.

“You know,” Alfie murmurs, low and intimate, right next to Tommy’s ear. “S’really not my fucking problem, now is it?”

Oh _fuck,_ Tommy thinks, the words burning through him like actual fire, lighting him up from the inside. Oh, Jesus _Christ._ He bucks into Alfie’s grip helplessly and then he has to clutch at Alfie’s shoulder, has to  press his mouth against the back of his own hand to keep quiet, coming in a hot, panicked rush that makes his knees go weak.

Pleasure makes everything else seem irrelevant and very far away.

Alfie coaxes him through it until he’s good and done, doesn’t stop until it’s almost too much, before he finally takes a deep, shuddering breath and lets go. He stumbles backwards and sits down heavily in the chair that’s been carelessly shoved to the side. The absence is jarring – empty space were the hard line of his body just was, solid and warm. Tommy pushes himself upright on the desk and tucks himself back into his trousers with trembling hands; heedless of the mess, because it suddenly feels more important to cover up.

Alfie is staring at him without saying anything, slumped deep into his chair, chest rising and falling. There is a strange look on his face – surprised, almost startled. Like he’s just now realized Tommy is even there.

Jesus Christ, Tommy thinks, heart pounding in his chest, this wasn’t the plan at all.

What the _fuck_ just happened?

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Anybody else can't help but imagine all the people stuck outside during these kind of situations? Like... "So, man, what's going on with you?" - "Oh, you know... not much. You?" - "All good, thanks." - "..." - "..." - "So, about that weather we're having, huh?" Or ist that just me?)
> 
> Word of warning: Third chapter might take a while, I'm pretty swamped right now.  
> Also, I love Alfie just blatantly lying, even when it's obvious that he's not even buying it himself; it's just infinitely hilarious to me.
> 
>  
> 
> I'm [bakedapplesauce](https://bakedapplesauce.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


	3. Chapter 3

A few excruciating moments go by where nobody says or does anything.

“What-” Tommy says then and has to clear his throat before he can continue, “What the _fuck_ just happened?”

For whatever reason, this is the wrong thing to say.

He can practically see Alfie’s guard go up – shoulders tensing, jaw working like he’s grinding his teeth. He folds his arms in front of his chest. It’s like somebody slammed a door shut, because strange as it may sound, they were in this together until now. Angry and fighting, yes, but at least they were on the same page about _that._ Now the connection is gone; it’s just him on this side and Alfie on the other, with who knows how many miles of no man’s land stretching between them.

His leg must be killing him, Tommy realizes, because he has one foot planted on the floor, ready to get up at a moment’s notice, while the other one is stretched out front of him, kept carefully straight, as little weight on it as possible.

“I dunno, mate,” Alfie says. His voice sounds wrecked, but his face is completely blank. “Way I see it, s’like the weather, yeah. Sometimes, some things… they just happen. All right? Doesn’t do to read too much into them, does it, mountains and molehills and all that.”

He should get off the desk, Tommy thinks, because this is really undignified – except he’s not entirely sure his legs are going to be too happy about that decision just yet, still feeling kind of unsteady. So he stays where he is and leans back against the wall instead, tries his best to calm down. His mouth feels bruised and there’s come staining his clothes. Most of it seems to be on his shirt, which might work out fine, actually, if he just buttons up his jacket; and thank God Alfie had the foresight to get rid of _that_ , at least.

“You all right,” he says unexpectedly, and stops himself right away, because that is not what he was going to say at all.

“Oh, fuck off,” Alfie snaps immediately, eyes gone hard. “M’fine, yeah. Never better.”

“Fine. The original question still stands.”

“Oh, the _original_ question,” Alfie says, looking around like he’s searching for somebody else to talk to. “Right, yeah. The original question. Fuck me. You wanna have a fuckin’ discussion about the original fucking question, mate? Yeah? That what we’re gonna do here?”

He’s straightening up in his chair now – because he always has a tendency to hunch over when he’s sitting down, to curl around his folded arms, so it’s very noticeable when he stops doing it. There’s a cruel twist to his mouth. “I don’t see why, quite honestly and frankly, any kind of discussion would be warranted, right, ’cause I don’t think it’s _my_ fault, yeah, that you’re so _fuckin’-”_

And then – for the first time since Tommy has known him, who knows, maybe for the first time _ever_ in his miserable fucking life _–_ he just stops talking. Snaps his mouth shut right in the middle of a sentence and just _stops_ , like somebody wrenching their hand away from a hot stove, but it’s too late. The sentiment hangs between them, the possibility of every unspoken word echoing loud and clear in the small room.

_Easy. Wanton. Desperate for it._

There is one horrific second of complete and utter silence .

“That I’m… what?” Tommy manages to say, tonelessly and without a trace of emotion anywhere to be found, which is a small miracle, really, because he feels like everything is shaking. Reverberating almost – his hands, his legs, the pit of his stomach, his spine, his lungs, what feels like the inside of his head.

There is a strange ringing in his ears, drowning out his own voice. This is _exactly_ what he always suspected, he thinks, strangely detached – this, _this_ is what he was afraid of, this is why this whole thing has been a suicidal idea right from the very start. It’s _mortifying_ and somehow, it still manages to feel so much worse than he ever expected.

“Nothing,” Alfie says with a shrug, very obviously trying and failing to appear casual. His arms are still crossed, so it looks even more defensive, shoulders almost up to his ears. And then, all of a sudden, they’re both talking at the same time, speaking over each other and being terrifyingly polite about it; like two people passive-aggressively insisting that the other one should walk through the door first.

“Go on, I’m what?”

“Nahh, it was nothing-”

“No, just say it-”

“S’not important, really-”

 _“Finish that_ _fucking sentence!”_ Tommy shouts suddenly and at the top of his lungs, humiliation pulsing through him like molten lead and fucking _furious_ about it; he has to forcefully stop himself from adding every insult under the sun to the end of that sentence because he’s pretty sure that if he starts, he might never stop.

“Nah, I’d rather not,” Alfie says and there is a defiant twist to his mouth that almost _– almost –_ looks like he knows he’s in the wrong, but of course he isn’t going to acknowledge it. Then he adds, infuriatingly, “Calm down, lad, bloody hell.”

Tommy stares at him and has one _very_ calm and collected moment where he imagines shooting him – what it would feel like to grab his revolver and put a bullet right in the middle of his fucking chest, how he’d topple over backwards, probably, chair and all. He’s clutching the edge of the desk so hard his hands hurt.

“Yeah, all right, you know what,” Alfie says, after a moment of contemplation, and he has the actual nerve to sound almost _annoyed_ now _,_ like somebody who is talking to a cumbersome child that won’t see reason and it’s taking up too much of their time. The only thing that betrays that he’s not actually as unaffected as he is making it seem is the way he rolls his neck a bit, left to right, like somebody warming up for a physical activity. “Let’s cut to the chase. Here you fucking go, hm?”

And all of a sudden, he’s holding out his own gun. His actual fucking gun, hand around the gun barrel, grip pointed in Tommy’s direction, free for him to take if he wants it. Tommy blinks – looks at the weapon, at Alfie’s mask of mild interest, and back at the weapon – and doesn’t move. It feels surreal, almost, like Alfie read his mind or something.

He’s bluffing, Tommy thinks. Obviously. Even if he tried reaching for it, Alfie could pull it away easily, because he can move pretty fucking fast if he wants to, if his leg doesn’t have to be involved in the proceedings.

“No?” Alfie says after a few seconds, still offering him the gun, shaking his wrist a bit.

 _“Fuck_ off,” Tommy snaps – growls it, really – and then adds without even wanting to, “That’s not loaded.”

“The fuck it _isn’t,”_ Alfie says, expression turning stormy, like _this_ is the thing to get offended by in this bloody conversation. Jesus Christ, Tommy thinks, anger morphing into something closer to exasperation, if they’re actually going to argue about whether or not Alfie _is_ serious about his offer to let Tommy shoot him, they might as well give up now and go home.

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ,” he says with an exhale that might have been a sigh and presses the heels of both his hands against his eyes for a moment, before he looks back at Alfie again and says, dryly, “Put that fucking thing away. I’ve brought my own.”

The tension in the room snaps clean in half and falls away.

There is a very obvious joke in there somewhere and what’s worse, for a split second he can see Alfie _thinking_ about it, can see him considering it, which is scarier than anything else that has happened tonight, in all honesty – the fact that sometimes, Tommy can look at him and, for no reason at all, know _exactly_ what he’s thinking.

“All right, fine,” he says. “What about the fucking border then.”

Despite everything, or maybe even because of it, it is deeply satisfying to see the irritated look on Alfie’s face. He puts his gun away again, shifting in his chair with a grunt.

“What _about_ the fucking border?”

“You made a deal with Sabini,” Tommy tells him, a statement instead of a question.

“I did, yeah,” Alfie says easily, like he hasn’t _vehemently denied_ that very fact not even ten minutes ago, the insufferable bastard; looking almost confused, like he doesn’t understand what the issue is supposed to be here. “So fuckin’ what. S’none of your business, really, seeing as it doesn’t change a single fuckin’ thing for you.”

Tommy has to roll his eyes at that, disbelieving.

“None of my business, right. You not mentioning it makes it my fucking business.”

Alfie narrows his eyes at him.

“And why _the fuck_ would I do that,” he says, spreading his arms theatrically. “When apparently it’s public fucking knowledge already.”

He’s fishing, Tommy realizes – trying to figure out how Tommy knows about this and since when, which means they can’t have come to an agreement that long ago.

“I read about it in the paper,” he says, deadpan. “Made the headlines. You know how it is.”

Alfie tilts his head, taking in the sarcasm.

“Well, s’fucking Birmingham, innit,” he says after a pause, like that explains everything. “Not much else going on there, I’d imagine.”

“So what did he offer you, exactly?” Tommy says, not letting it go, because Alfie is bloody excellent at changing the subject; marching off in whatever direction he wants and dragging the whole conversation along with him.

“Bloody hell,” he says, clearly annoyed now, but there’s no edge to it at all – somehow they’ve managed to avoid imminent disaster. Tommy still isn’t entirely sure how that happened, exactly, but it _did_ and that’s the important part. Probably.

Alfie drags a hand over his beard, rubbing at his mouth.

“His firstborn son,” he says then, very sarcastically. “Fuckin’ useless idiot that he is. And I said no, didn’t I, obviously I said no, because it’s a bit much for a man to offer, innit, but he insisted. In addition to that, generously, he also offered me his collection of pocket squares, yeah… always wanted to have that-”

For whatever reason, Tommy gets caught off guard by the last one and has to bite back a grin. Alfie seems to notice anyway because he makes an inviting one-armed gesture and looks at him very seriously.

“You want in on that, then?”

“Do I want in on the pocket squares?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll have to think about it.”

“Right, mate. You do that.”

There is a moment of silence.

“Alfie,” Tommy says then, suddenly feeling… something. Tired maybe. Alfie straightens up at the mention of his name. “How much?”

“How much what?”

“Let me put it this way,” he says, switching tack, because apparently they’re back at square one again. “Why the fuck should I trust you when you insist on doing shit like this?”

Alfie shrugs and scrubs a hand over his face, idly scratching his cheek.

“Tommy,” he says then, propping his elbows up on the armrests of the chair and holding out both of his hands like he’s gripping the invisible world between them. “At the risk, right, at the immense risk of stating the bleedingly obvious? Yeah? You really shouldn’t.”

Which is fucking typical, Tommy thinks. That asshole. He’ll warily circle around any kind of actual truth like a predator waiting for the perfect opening – except once in a while, for no apparent reason at all, he’ll suddenly decide to just lay everything out on the table, take it or leave it, and consequences be damned. Christ, Tommy fucking _hates_ him. What the fuck is he supposed to say to that?

“Well, good thing I don’t.”

Alfie murmurs something that sounds like “attaboy”, but it’s so quiet that Tommy doesn’t quite catch it.

Probably for the best.

 

* * *

 

When they finally re-emerge, the overall mood seems to have deflated somewhat.

People have kept to their respective sides, sticking close to the cars, but apart from that everyone seems relaxed, smoking and talking quietly. So far, so good, Tommy thinks, except the next thing that happens is Arthur turning towards to him, like he’s in on a secret, and muttering, “Please tell me you broke a fuckin’ bone or something.”

“What,” Tommy manages, not even sure what he is feeling because he doesn’t understand at all. The first instinct is panic because his immediate thought is that Arthur _knows,_ that he is alluding to… but no. The actual words start to think in, but now they make even less sense. Arthur doesn’t know. Nobody does. So what the fuck is he talking about?

“Could have gone for a black eye at least,” Arthur continues. “Cut him up a little.”

A _fight._

Arthur thinks they had a bloody fight, Tommy realizes about ten seconds too late – he’s noticed the way Alfie is limping, and how red Tommy’s face must be with beard-burn, and has come to the conclusion that there was an actual, physical altercation. Which… isn’t that far off, to be honest, except in all the ways that really matter.

“It’s all right, Arthur,” he murmurs, which doesn’t really answer the question, but he’s still reeling. “Everything’s settled now.”

“If you say so,” Arthur says, then adds after a short pause, “Still. You need me to bash his fuckin’ face in, you just say the word.”

“I will,” Tommy says, feeling faint.

Later, when they shake hands goodbye, everything is fine for exactly half a second – until Tommy looks down at both of their hands, Alfie’s palm warm against his, and gets hit by the visceral memory of him gripping Alfie’s wrist as Alfie makes him come all over himself and has to take a shivery breath through his nose. It’s barely noticeable, but it must be written all over his face anyway, because suddenly Alfie is staring at him like he’s hypnotized, blinking slowly. It’s very obvious that they’re thinking about the same thing.

They let go like they’ve burned themselves.

“Right,” Alfie says, just a touch too loud. “Well. That’s that, then.”

Tommy clears his throat.

“Yes,” he says and then, for whatever fucking reason, can’t think of anything else, so he just stupidly repeats, “Yes.” before he hastily adds, “Goodbye then.” Then he shoves a hand into his pocket to fish out his packet of cigarettes, because Jesus fucking Christ, he has to do _something._ He can practically feel Arthur scowling at the back of his head.

Alfie makes an unidentifiable noise that could mean anything really, somewhere between a hum and a grunt, promptly turns around and leaves. Tommy shoves a cigarette between his lips and lights up as fast as he can, already turning away himself. For whatever reason, he feels a lot more rattled now than he did before; more than when it was just the two of them in that room, even. As he walks over to the car, there is only two questions fighting for attention inside of his head.

What the fuck happened tonight and, even more importantly… _what_ _the fuck_ is he going to do about it?

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire chapter is basically: Feelings? DOES NOT COMPUTE.  
> Also, both of them freaking out about something manifests in them being assholes to each other.
> 
> (Shocking, I know.)
> 
>  
> 
> I'm [bakedapplesauce](https://bakedapplesauce.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


End file.
